Encounters
by Halfbred
Summary: Aarch has always taken sex as seriously as he takes any other game, but he keeps coming back to that one point.


ENCOUNTERS

**Summary:** Aarch takes sex as seriously as he takes every other game.

* * *

He kisses the line of vertebrae, every one of them, all down her back. She mewls softly but does not wake, only leans in further against him.

He sighs and catches himself smiling. How odd to be happy at being denied the prospect of sex. How strange to be content just to lie here with her curled against him.

He thinks of waking her up just to tell her that. He wants so badly to tell her just what he feels, that just to be around her is distracting, inspiring, electrifying, terrifying. Sometimes he can barely contain his desire to be back in these moments again, alone with her.

But she is sleeping so peacefully, how can he bring himself to wake her? Besides he has made himself a promise. He tells himself it is for the good of the team. Coach has made it clear that he does not want things to be further complicated. They already have an expectant father on the team without adding to the distractions. It will mean so much more if he tells her after they succeed.

He ignores the little voice that says that fear is stopping him. That he is simply afraid of putting his heart on the line, afraid of her rejection, of her laughter. He is afraid as afraid of that as he is that he will fail in this great endeavour.

They had always said they would keep it casual, what if she doesn't want anything more? What if they were to lose and she came to think of him as a loser.

He tots up the reasons in his head, finding more and more until telling her the truth seems entirely unfeasible. It's better then, to wait. After the matches – after that final Shadows' match – when they qualify, he will tell her.

She wriggles in his arms and he holds her a little closer and kisses the back of her neck.

* * *

He is fourteen when he kisses Melana in her room and fumbles with her bra and cannot get it open. He is terrified that her parents will come home early from the symphony and that they will be discovered.

Melana is fifteen, a good year older than him and she is patient. But when after ten minutes of trying he still cannot work the clasp he gives up and settles just for kissing her and fondling her breasts over her jumper. The whole time he cannot stop himself from blushing.

* * *

Ellis is the one they're all interested in. Ellis is an Akillian legend. He has been captain for three years and a star striker for five. Aarch has the greatest respect for Ellis as a captain, as a player and as a man. Ellis didn't have to bother to give the rookies on try-out even the time of day but he takes them to a bar and buys them all a round of drinks instead. The girls are around him like flies on a Mulderbeast, but he makes room for the rookies and presently one of them notices the new boy.

"You're cute. Are you a footballer too?"

"Yes."

She smiles and brings her cocktail to crimson lips.

It really is that simple.

* * *

"Good morning Adium."

"Keep dreaming mid-field."

* * *

Twenty-four hours ago she looked straight through him. Now, after his 2-1 victory she takes him by the hand and leads him out of the room. Norata watches him go with an open mouth.

Sex with and Unadar native is an experience. It requires stamina and he would advise anyone to be on top if they can help it.

* * *

"Good morning Adium."

"Keep dreaming Captain."

* * *

She's no Vera Starr, but she's still possibly the most famous person he's ever met. She half-smiles and it's a smile full of all sorts of promises.

"So Hero, you want me to show you around the city tonight?"

He glances quickly over to the other side of the function room where his team mates are gathering for a photo and feels relief that none of them are looking.

"Not tonight, thank you."

* * *

"Good morning Adium."

"Good morning Aarch."

"Oh spare us please. Everyone knows you two are together now."

"Shut up Norata!"

* * *

Wishful thinking has it that she's contracted a mild case of Tundran Para-flu but he knows she has been crying. He wonders what has happened. He wonders is it something that he has done.

When he tries to ask her about it she shakes him off and tells him that his focus should be on the match.

* * *

"Good morning Adium... Adium?"

* * *

They pass the bottle back and forth between them, taking slugs as their stunts grow more and more daring. The amber liquid, traded for an autographed jersey at the port takes the edge off the cold of the empty stadium.

Artegor hands him the bottle, takes a few steps back and then jumps. He reappears twenty feet away and then jumps again. He manages nine consecutive jumps, appearing above the goal and dropping lightly onto the crossbar. He grins and thumbs his nose at Aarch.

Even in fun Aarch doesn't plan on being bettered. He jumps, still holding the bottle by the neck. He completes ten jumps without a pause, though the last three leave his throat burning for air and his muscles wracked by cramps. He materialises next to Artegor for a second and then vanishes again, landing facing his goal on the line of the penalty box.

Artegor shrugs this off and vanishes again. For a long moment he does not reappear at all and Aarch scans the field for him. The moment ends and so does Aarch's irrational dalliance with panic when he feels the bottle being tugged out of his hand. His eyes meet Artegor's and then the bottle is wrested from him and he is left coughing in a cloud of smoke.

He has no choice but to give chase and he leaps after him, following him into that dim netherworld that is without air or sound, where the light is secondhand and seems to come from very far away. In this world he can see Artegor but not touch him any more than he can call his name, so it is only when they snap back into the real world that he can snatch at the bottle and hear Artegor's laughter.

His team mate has no intention of giving in easily either. His jumps get longer and his landing points more precarious. It becomes a children's game. Who can hold his breath under water longest? Who can jump from the highest point on the cliff? They race along the pitch, jumping further, staying longer out of phase then they would ever normally dare to do. The last jump brings them to the very edge of the pitch. A centimetre more and they would have materialised within the live energy fence.

They wheel back and collapse on the pitch, laughing. Artegor has had his thumb in the bottle the whole time. He passes it over and Aarch gulps a mouthful down.

"This is better," Artegor sighs. "We're going to be champions now, I can feel it...together."

He moves as if to reach for the bottle. Instead though, he rests his arm on Aarch's bicep and leaves it there, almost shyly. Their eyes meet.

Two paths open up before Aarch's eyes. In one he lets the arm rest there and in one he gets up and goes to bed right now. Lots of things, that never made a great deal of sense before seem to slot into place for him now.

"Your heart is pounding," says Artegor. "I can feel it."

Aarch leaps to his feet, like a cat who has had hot water thrown on it. He pushes the bottle towards Artegor, laughing. "Here have a drink. I'm going to try and see just how high I can get in one jump! Watch me."

Things continue on the same and remain un-discussed.

* * *

The Wambas are a sociable people, even in defeat and they are delighted that not one but two of The Shadows, usually such a taciturn team, agree to come out for a post-match celebration. It is high season and there is no shortage of women, only some of them football fans, to coo over the renowned GFC players.

She enjoys watching them from across the bar. The smaller one is clearly uncomfortable with so much blatant female attention and would, she thinks, rather be somewhere else. The other one, large and rangy, like a jungle cat, is totally at his ease. He puts his arm around a blonde and whispers something in her ear, causing her to giggle. His eyes then slide past his date to where she sits as if he were aware she is watching him. Their eyes meet and she tilts an eyebrow and re-crosses her legs.

It takes him five minutes to extract himself and slide into the seat next to her. Another five before they slip out of the bar together. They are both old players of the game and neither interested in wasting any time.

She takes him back to her lodgings, where native weavings and Ibo stones are at odds with the state-of-the-art fomulary and bio-scanners. He gazes around him curiously, "How long have you lived among the Wambas."

"A year. I am making a study of the healing power that the Alonwe caves, while I learn the traditional medicines with the Wamba Hartharie." She pours him a drink.

"I see," he says in a voice laced with scepticism.

"You are not a believer in the Hartharie methods." It's a statement.

"It's just," he glances at the framed scroll on the wall, "It's not common for a doctor of the Academie Veritas Galactica to believe in that sort of stuff, is it?"

"Well perhaps we believe that the power of a planet can be put to other uses than simply kicking a ball across a field."

He can see that has put his foot in it. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply..."

She leans back on the couch and shrugs, amused by him. "I am not offended. Far from it. I watched you play today. You are very skilled. Even if it is just kicking a ball across a field."

He takes this ribbing with good humour. "Thank you."

"But not so happy, yes? I am sorry about what happened on your planet. Akillian was a jewel."

"Yes. Thank you." His eyes go dark and he shifts uncomfortably on the couch.

"And the loss of your flux, that too was a tragedy."

He gets up, comes across the room bends down and kisses her. He is a very good kisser and she enjoys it, but presently she puts her hand on his chest and pushes him away. "Am I to take this to mean you do not wish to talk about it?"

"I simply would like us to enjoy our night," he says.

"Very well," she loops her hands around his neck, "But Aarch, do remember, if there ever comes a time when you are in need of my help, do not be afraid to ask."

Months later, when the kindly Cyclops captain asks him where it is he wants to be taken, he remembers her offer.

* * *

"Where is he? Where is he? That bastard! That bastard!" She screams between gulps of air. Tears are streaming down her face.

"It's all right pet. Come along now."

Outside the window snow is falling again. In the corridor there is no one waiting.

She sobs and the sob becomes a kind of scream. "I hate him."

"There there, love. One last effort now. It's okay. Good girl."

It's a fine strong first cry.

* * *

When she returns from her shopping and finds him doing push-ups one-handed she is not pleased. "You are supposed to be recuperating. You are not yet ready for this."

He grins. "Simbai I feel fantastic. This is better than I've felt in months. And it's all thanks to you."

"You still need to take it easy. You do not wish to strain yourself."

He leaps to his feet and grins wickedly. "Are you going to give me my medical now, doctor?" He scoops her up in his arms. He feels so vigorous she seems to weigh nothing at all.

"And none of that either."

Still laughing he throws her over his shoulder and carries her into the bedroom.

* * *

Simbai remains his lover throughout his time with the Wambas and their encounters, though intermittent are always satisfactory for both parties. She is quick to set out ground rules. Theirs is by no means an exclusive situation. On the contrary she lets him know that on the nights that she brings other lovers, both male and female, home; he is expected to clear out.

He himself has no shortage of lovers, as many as he wants. Wambas are as free-wheeling about sex as they are about everything else. Also there are always travellers on their way to or from somewhere. Some are easily impressed enough to think a washed up footballer is some kind of catch.

Time passes. His body heals, but he doesn't think the lacerations to his ego ever will. He paces back and forth and misses having a ball under his feet. One day he watches a documentary item about the progress of the recovery on Akillian and begins to feel the first brush of the emptiness that will follow him from system to system and from team to team for many years to come.

She tells him, before he is able to articulate it himself, that it is time for him to go.

* * *

His career staggers to its ungraceful end, moving from minor league team to minor league team, plugging holes and playing without warmth or spirit. He lives with a failed actress for three months. They have little in common except disillusionment and a masochistic desire to wallow in the wrecks they have made of their lives.

She steals from him with his tacit approval. The one thing he still has is money. At the end of the three months she leaves him for a man who thinks he can get her a small part in a holo-drama. He can't blame her. She has pipe dreams. He has them too.

* * *

Drell is a merry divorcee. She always introduces herself as such and also always adds, "I bet you didn't think we really existed, but we do." She is an active member of the Xenon Support Fund and they met when he let himself be forced into attending a charity bachelor auction. She was the only bidder.

They have been carrying on a very satisfactory affair for the last six weeks. The sex is good, though Drell will insist on crying every time he brings her to orgasm. She likes to take him to museums and to parties to show him off. He lets her. There is not much else do to. His career is finished. He is floundering.

Tonight she is hosting a dinner party. He turns up in suit and tie with a bottle of Drell's favourite wine. She takes it from him, thanks him with a proprietary kiss and steers him to meet her guests. "Su-Ling you already know and this is my new neighbour. I'm sorry I've forgotten your name."

But the little man doesn't seem to mind. He beams and wrings his hand. "Goodness, you're Aarch. I saw you play The Lightnings in your championship match... oh it must have been ten years ago. I still remember the roar when you scored that equalizer at the start of the second half. That was some of the most beautiful football I've ever seen."

It was eleven years ago actually and he remembers it as if it were yesterday. He feels ashamed that this man is bringing it up now.

"And your match on Shiloh and the final minutes of the return against the Elespens," he gushes, "The Akillian Dynasty. We've never had a time like it. So what are you doing now Aarch?"

"Well, my leg..." he murmurs.

"Yes, the injury. I heard about that. Terrible way to end a career like yours. But you still have a long professional life in front of you, right? Are you here to take up the deputy coaching job? How do you rate The Pirates chances in the GFC? Do you think they can qualify this year?"

"Aarch," Drell slides a hand around his waist as she might slide a collar around her pet terrier. Already the feeling of ownership is beginning to itch, "I want you to come meet someone."

"Let's talk again some time." The man slips him a card, a quick glance only revealing the Technoid T in the left-hand corner. "If you're not too busy I'd love to run some ideas by you."

* * *

Her friends call him the old man, but he is not so old, not even old enough to be her father really and he is delicious in bed.

But oh, what a bore he is. Whenever they are in bed together she tries to steer the conversation to politics, music, the price of paper, anything except football. It's not as if Akillian are any good. They don't even have Flux.

"Now cardiovascular fitness is the bedrock of any team's performance but with a team like ours you would also need to maximise flexibility without too heavy an emphasis on gymnastic training. And most teams only train during the day, which I feel is a mistake..."

She sighs. Dany was right. This is becoming a drag and she needs to move on. She wonders if Benny is back in town and if she can give him a call at this time of night. "I'm going to take a shower."

He barely hears her. He is too busy making a note to ask Clamp how many parameters he thinks he can get his holo-trainer to measure simultaneously.

* * *

"You're wasting your time!"

"What a coincidence. I have time to waste."

* * *

She assumes the position of team medic but does not extend any offer to continue their former relations, doesn't even seriously consider it. She knows exactly the response she would receive.

This is not Wambas. On Akillian he is a different man.

And better for it, she thinks.

* * *

The gala reception in Genesis to celebrate the end of the Galactik Football Cup. His kids, understandably, are euphoric. Micro-Ice has already knocked over two canapé tables and a Cyclops dignitary in his excitement. He makes a note to tell the bar-tender that the Snow Kids are not to be served anything harder than ginger ale.

There is a river of people here to offer their congratulations. Many of his own heroes, both players and coaches, come to shake his hand. Norata hugs him as soon as he sees him and Mana-Ice actually weeps on his breast. When Prince Simbra enters he brings a hush with him. He takes Aarch's hand in his own slender fingers and says solemnly, "Well done."

_She _is among the Akillian delegation, waiting in line with them before she joins her League colleagues. The Akillian Ambassador pumps his hand up and down, offering his congratulations and then steps aside. He faces her with dread and longing.

"Well done Aarch." She pecks him on the cheek. Her kiss is as cold as Akillian Winter.

It means the most all the same.

* * *

"We're going to be late for practice."

"And I don't care."

They have their heads beneath the sheets which have become the sky of their own private world. Her laugh is light as she lifts her head halfway off the pillow and the tumble of her red-gold curls on the white sheets is like sunset on a winter's day. He marvels at it.

"You're going to get me in trouble."

"Am I," she pouts, "Captain?"

One hand slips across her hip and onto the small of her back, his thumb presses on her hipbone. He pulls her towards him and strokes her cheek as he kisses her.

"Yes. Most definitely."

She rests her head on his chest for a moment and he breathes in the dusky scent of her hair. He would like to tell her that he would like to stay here always. That's it, he thinks, a life of sex and sleep, venturing only occasionally off-world to bring back food. What more really, does he want?

But she is moving already. She tears at the horizon, wrapping his sky around her as she lets the wider world and the morning sunshine in on top of him. "Well then, I suppose I had better get you up and deliver you to someone who can look after you properly."

He is content to lie uncovered on the bed with his head propped up on his arm as she searches for items of clothes, discarded in a rush the night before. She pulls a scarf off the television with a deft swipe and he does not know how her panties came to be sitting high atop his bookcase.

He realises, as he watches her wriggle into her shirt and flick her long hair out from under her collar, what a selfish whim it was to want to keep her here when her natural home is on the pitch, where there he can watch her fly.

Still though, perhaps it is okay to be selfish sometimes...

He grabs her as she reaches for her skirt and pulls her down onto the bed, rolling over so as to pin her to the mattress. She laughs despite herself as he nuzzles her neck.

"Aarch!"

He leans over her. "You are a beautiful minx."

"And you," she thumps his chest, "Are a lazy captain."

"I thought you didn't care," he teases.

"I don't," she kisses him breathlessly, raking his lower lip with her teeth, "But you do."

"You're right. I do." He kisses her again as their hands entwine on the pillow.


End file.
